Heady
by Kurojouou
Summary: Arya learnt that this Jon craved control, craved dominance. Craved her love and devotion. And she gave it to him. From her heart to her body to her soul. Not that they weren't his to begin with.


Theon begs.

He is on his hands and knees, his white-grey mop of hair bouncing up and down as he screams and cries apologies, but gets nothing in return. The Hall goes silent, and the direwolf beside her growls. Arya musses her fur and silences her.

They all look at her. Sansa and Asha Greyjoy and Davos Seaworth, but she says nothing. They know she can convince him to spare Theon. If there is anyone whom Jon listens to with blind obedience, it is her. Arya ignores them, her eyes briefly glancing at the King. His eyes are dark and stormy, and his hand clenches his seat, his throne.

Theon meets her eyes from the floor, his tears and snot wetting his cheeks. The man is as useless as they come. He has no strength in his bones anymore. Arya doubts he can even walk without a limp. He is heavily malnourished, and looks like an old, feeble man of sixty. His life isn't worth anything anymore, and he knows that. It isn't him he is begging for.

"Arya," Jon commands. She nods her head.

The guards holding Asha Greyjoy releases her from her chains, and throws her on the floor beside her brother. Theon's incoherent apologies continue, but it is too late.

Arya pulls her hand off Nymeria, and the wolf growls, making everyone in the room flinch except the Starks. Arya steps aside, and Nymeria lashes out at the woman, immediately ripping her arm off. Theon screams in agony, as the direwolf mutilates his sister, until he finally rips off her head, splattering the brains out on Theon's body.

Arya can see men look at her and the King with disgust. But they lower their heads when they find her gaze.

"Let him live," Jon orders, unfazed by the violence. "Do the same to him a week later."

Arya calls Nymeria back, and the direwolf retreats with her mouth full of crimson red blood.

"Find Ghost," Arya whispers, and Nymeria walks out with a whine. Nymeria kills, but she never eats. She detests human flesh with a passion, and the only way for her to tame her hunger after a kill is for her to go and hunt with Ghost.

Arya finds Jon looking at her, his almost black eyes staring hungrily at her. She cocks her eyebrow. It is hardly the place or time.

Jon, having received no encouragement, silently leaves the Hall, and the people also scatter. A few servant boys arrive to wash the filth off the floor, and Arya sees a couple of them try to not gag at the sight of it.

"You must be very happy." Sansa's smooth voice resonates in her ear.

"This is the second execution this week he has done in your name."

"I never told him to kill her," Arya replies, calmly. She really didn't. It was his choice, and as an obedient executioner, she carried out his orders without a question.

"But you could have stopped him. You could've saved her, and you know it."

Arya keeps her eyes infront of her.

"He's the King. He does as he pleases," she lies. She knows of the power she holds over the King. The whole North does.

"Oh, I know he does. I know both of you do." Sansa's voice is overly sweet. "You think I've never seen both of you leaving each other's chambers after a whole night of fucking? You think I don't hear you moaning from my room like a lowly tavern wench? You disgust me. Father would be ashamed of you both."

Arya ignores Sansa and walks out of the Hall. She has heard enough men and women whisper about her and Jon by now that she can care less about her sister.

Needle is at her hip, as she makes her way to the balcony overlooking the training yard. They have started rebuilding half of Winterfell, after the measly attempt of the Boltons to do so after the fire. One thing Sansa and Arya both agreed on was to rid their castle of anything related to the usurper, and Jon had wasted no time to order it.

He hasn't been King long. After his death and resurrection, Jon had marched to Winterfell with the Wildlings, and wasted no time in taking back his Lord Father's home. He had killed Ramsay Bolton with his own hands, smashing his skull repeatedly against the walls of the castle.

Arya had arrived two weeks later, abandoning her training and retrieving her sword. It was only then she had found out about Jeyne Poole, the imposter who had pretended to be her, and whom Jon Snow had thrown in the dungeons, in the midst of the rage of realizing that his death and his fight had all been in vain. She had later died of injuries that Ramsay had inflicted on her. Arya had tried, but her efforts nor the Maester's were enough to save her.

Arya's arrival brought forth many revelations.

Jon Snow wasn't what Arya remembered. The sweet, shy and sad boy was gone. He was a King now, with cruel eyes and a crueler heart.

When Arya first saw his scars, she had wanted to unsheathe her Needle and cut open every man who had done this to him. She had told him so, and he had only smiled, a smile that reached his eyes and told her that it was him who would protect her and not the other way around.

That, however, was the only moment he ever smiled like that. Genuinely, like a boy.

Sansa's arrival hadn't made matters easy. Her sister clearly wanted the Throne for herself, and did her best to manipulate Jon to take it. It didn't work, however. The young Jon would gladly offer it to Sansa, but this man had acquired a taste for ruling. He had bluntly refused Sansa, but she had persisted. It had led to nothing till now, but Arya doubted her sister would ever stop.

"It's not his birthright," Sansa had told her one day. Arya didn't waste time to make Sansa understand that it was Jon who got Winterfell back for them, and so it was his right by everything else but birth. That had been the last time Sansa had mentioned the matter to her. She had realized whose side Arya was on.

Her and Jon's relationship hadn't went smoothly either. In the days that followed after her arrival, Jon's demeanor towards her had changed. She'd find him looking at her, in ways that made her squirm in her place. He'd talk less to her, but his eyes would never leave her, always lingering on her face, on her chest and everywhere else. After a certain execution, Arya had finally gathered the courage to go and confront him about it in his chambers. And that was the day everything had changed.

The day he had taken her maidenhead and fucked her raw. She remembered everything, from the way he had held her arms over her head and taken her every way he could.

"I died for you," he had told her, panting on top of her after he finished. "I killed for you. The blood on my hands is all because of you."

Arya wondered at first if he was blaming her. But he wasn't.

With those words, Jon had swore an oath. That he had perished for her, and he would perish for her again. That he would kill again, for her.

Arya learnt that this Jon craved control, craved dominance. Craved her love and devotion. And she gave it to him. From her heart to her body to her soul.

Not that they weren't his to begin with.

"Something is troubling you." Jon's deep voice reverberates. Arya kneels infront of him on the floor. His eyes study her like an open book. Jon licks his lips and places his fingers under her chin.

"No," Arya lies. She leans forward and places her mouth on the scars on his abdomen, sucking, leaving wet patches of saliva on his skin.

"Arya." His hands go into her hair and he strokes it a few times, then suddenly yanks it hard, tilting her head back. "I thought you knew better than to lie to me."

Arya winces in pain, but she cherishes it. He cannot hurt her. She has not given that power to him.

"Is it me? Have I done something?" He asks. It is a treasure to her to see his eyes lighten with worry. Everyone else sees wrath in them, and heartlessness and inhumanity. But she has seen more - lust, hunger, sadness, relief, devotion, and if she dares to say it, even love.

She has seen all that is to see in him.

"It is not you," she assures him. Her hands reach for his breeches and she tries pulling them off, but Jon stops her with a strong hand.

"Tell me," he orders, his worry replaced with authority. Arya's insides quiver. She waits, then opens her mouth.

"Do you think Father would be ashamed of us?"

There is silence, then Jon's hand starts stroking her hair again. She feels her eyes close at the comfort.

"Who put that in your head? Sansa?"

No, it's been always in my head, she wants to say, but she nods instead. She touches his manhood over his breeches again, and receives no denial from Jon. She looks on as it rises underneath her touch. This time he lets her take them off, and Arya uses her hands to hang the breeches low on his knees.

"It's not her fault," Arya insists, taking his erection in her hands, and pressing a kiss against it. Jon's grasp on her hair tightens.

"She thinks I'm depraved to want my brother's cock," she adds, turning her head up meekly to look at his eyes. Jon's breathing has gone erratic.

"And what do you think?" He asks, his skin flushing as Arya licks the underside of his manhood. The little creases on his brow make her want to stand up and kiss them.

"I have a thirst for you," Arya moans. She feels her underclothes dampen as she takes him in her mouth and uses one of her hands to stroke his balls. She feels Jon thrust his hips lightly against her mouth, and marvels at it.

She sucks and sucks, and moves her head in rhythm. Jon's bucking starts increasing, and moans spill from his mouth, broken and filled with unintelligible words. She finds her name in them, and fastens her pace.

She lets go once, and breathes heavily, strings of saliva joining her mouth and his now completely erect cock.

Jon wipes the sweat from her forehead with his fingers.

"You look so delectable," Jon says, groaning. "You should see yourself like this. Your eyes are begging for me to fill your mouth with my cock. Should I quench your thirst, little one?"

Arya moans loudly, her body aching in response to his words.

"Yes, My King," she manages, and watches as his eyes burn.

Jon holds her head, and thrusts himself into her mouth with fervor. Arya feels her eyes water as the tip reaches the back of her mouth. She swirls her tongue around him, letting her control go as he uses her head. Jon's hips rise from the bed as he thrusts into her faster and faster, closing his eyes and groaning her name with every thrust. Arya uses her hands to reach behind him and grabs his hips.

Jon's voice rises in pitch and Arya feels him start to throb in her mouth. She struggles to keep her eyes open, but he tugs on her hair when she tries to close her lids. Arya looks up at him, her vision blurry and sees his intense gaze on her.

"Look at me as I fill you," he orders.

Arya fixes her eyes on him with great difficulty. Jon lets out a guttural moan, and stills. She feels him release, his hot seed spurting against her tongue. Jon moans, thrusts lazily and waits till he has emptied himself entirely. He brings himself out of her mouth, a trail of cum hanging from it, and Arya darts out her tongue to lick it clean, not leaving even a drop.

She wipes her mouth with her palm, and brings it to wipe the tears on her cheeks, when Jon interrupts, and leans down to run his tongue over the tears instead.

He licks the whole of her face, from her temple to her chin to her lips. He kisses her briefly, tasting her and biting her plump lips with his teeth.

"Do you want me to get rid of her?" He asks, and shoves his tongue inside her mouth again. Arya caresses it with her own.

"You know that I'll do it for you," he adds. He picks her up and lays her down on his bed. She shivers at his words. It fills her body with pleasure to know that he'd do anything and everything for her.

"She's still my sister. No matter what she says."

"I'm not proposing anything extreme." Jon stops his actions, and his face grows serious. "I hold little love for our sister, but I respect her enough not to hurt her. She can, however, be driven away from here. From what I've heard, she has been in quite a clandestine affair with Harry Hardyng before coming to Winterfell. I can marry her off to him. As an alliance, of course."

Arya shakes her head.

"Let her be. Her words do not hurt me anymore."

Jon frowns.

"But you are troubled." He stills, and then kisses her hungrily. "You do not have to think of Lord Stark. Or anyone. I'm the King, and you're mine. Anyone who dares to point a finger at you will lose his hand and his head."

Arya squirms beneath him. Jon's hand squeezes her breast.

"I will kill your enemies," he swears. "I will kill anyone who dares to think ill of you. This is our North now, yours and mine. You'll share my Throne and my bed till the end." He stops, pants. "Won't you?"

Arya sees his eyes lose color. He fears.

Fears what he will do if she says no, if she rejects him. This madness inside of him is fragile, and Arya knows it has half-consumed him already. It has turned her brother into a monster. But she will not let it devour him whole.

"Yes," she agrees, closing her eyes.

If they are both headed for hell, they might as well go there hand-in-hand.

"You have me," she vows.

It is on a Council meeting that Jon tells Sansa and Davos of Daenerys Targaryen's letter. Arya sits patiently. Council meetings have never been to her taste, but Jon insists everytime that she be present.

It takes ten minutes for Sansa to come up with a strategy. Arya watches Jon's face turn dark as she suggests of an allegiance. Jon refuses, and it leads to a heated argument. Arya never opens her mouth, and the others are too careful not to say anything when the Lady and the King are talking.

"What do you think?" Jon asks her finally, voice still filled with anger, but not at her.

"I do not believe a Southern Queen would do Winterfell any good, Your Grace," she answers.

Jon's face softens, pleased. He thanks her with a look, but Arya had meant what she said, and it has nothing to do with Jon's opinion of it.

"The dragons will burn us," Sansa's voice looms over them.

"They wouldn't dare." Jon's voice is a warning, a threat.

Sansa stands. Her eyes are on Arya, as if she is the only one to blame here. But Arya knows.

If I tell him, he'll listen.

But she does not want to.

"You both think yourselves invincible." Sansa looks at Jon, but then turns to her again. It is not easy for anyone to look at Jon and hold his gaze.

"The dragons will eat your wolves for dinner, and burn this throne of yours. Then you'll realise your mistake." She turns around, her long, auburn hair glowing like fire. "This power has blinded you both, and may the Gods have mercy on you."

She feels an impulse to shove Daenerys Targaryen out of Winterfell's gates the moment she enters. It has taken Arya a full night of convincing to make Jon understand that perhaps Sansa is right. Arya is wary of the Queen still, and does not want Winterfell to bend to her wishes, but she listens to Sansa. Listens closely, and finds her sister provides good counsel in such matters.

But it is the way the Dragon Queen looks at Jon- that Arya wants to be done with peace and set Nymeria on her to break her neck in two. She watches in silence as Daenerys pushes her chest up as she talks to Jon and glides her soft-looking hand over his as he takes it.

Arya kisses him, hard, all teeth and tongue. She pushes him against the walls of the broken tower, and bites him. Everywhere she can reach, and everywhere it will hurt.

Jon growls, twists and then it is her who is at his mercy, back pressed to the ice-cold stone, and Arya looks at him ferociously, baring her teeth. She lunges at him to bite him again, but Jon stops her, holding her arms above her head, and his hardness pressing against her thigh.

"I wonder which one of us is more insane," Jon whispers in her ear, and bucks his hips up to meet her centre. Arya moans.

"You're mine," Arya growls. Her voice is heavy on her tongue. She cannot think straight, and wonders if the madness would consume her before it does him.

"You're mine, Jon Snow." She feels him thrust into her wetness. "That whore would do well to know that, and you'd do well to remember it."

Jon grins, cruelly, and with a hand pushes her breeches down her knees. His eyes hood with lust, and Arya mewls as he finds her centre and parts it with his fingers.

"Did it make you wet, seeing me and her?"

Arya growls. She wants to lash out and scratch and bite, but she's being held by hands stronger than her. Jon inserts two fingers roughly, knowing she can take it. She lets out a loud moan that echoes through the empty tower.

"I did this for you." He moves his fingers so fast, Arya thinks she'll faint from the pleasure. "You only have yourself to blame for your misery."

His hands leave her, and he hoists her up with his palms. Arya wraps her legs around him, and he holds her on top of him.

"Put my cock in you," he orders, breathless. "Your cunt is dripping for me, isn't it? You would have let me take you there, infront of everyone at the gates. You would have let me claim you for the entire Winterfell to see."

"Yes!" Arya screams, her lungs running out of air. She takes his cock in her hand and finds it pulsating. Her voice turns to a cry as she lets him inside her, and as soon as she does, Jon pins her hands over her head again using one of his own.

He thrusts, and it blacks out her vision. Her head hits back against the stone, but she's too much in pleasure to notice the pain. But then it stops.

Jon withdraws from her agonisingly slow, and waits. Arya looks at him as if he's gone mad.

"Beg me," he orders.

She gulps. She looks at him for seconds, hoping he'll change his mind, but he doesn't.

She opens her mouth.

"Jon, please fuck me," she says, voice catching. Her cheeks flush.

Jon enters her again, slowly.

He leans forward and drags his teeth over her ear.

"Beg. Tell me how you want me to fuck you."

Arya tries to move down on his cock, but Jon is holding her high enough for her to fail. His breath leaves the hair on her skin standing.

"Harder," she begs. "My King, I need you. Fuck me hard, please."

Jon's grunts, and thrusts, and this times it hits so deep inside her she screams. Jon kisses her mouth and their tongues dance and his hips buck into her wildly.

"Your mouth is so sweet," he growls. His hands leave her wrists and he uses them to push her back more into the wall and tilt her hips to thrust faster.

"I love your cunt and your moans and your voice."

Arya hears the squelching sounds they make and the scent of sex fills her nose.

Jon's hands grab her arse, and Arya's own clutch at his hair. Jon kisses her all over her chest and leaves bruises with his sucking. His hips are now merciless, and Arya tries to catch the high she has been chasing.

His voice is husky when he speaks.

"Cum for me, my wolf."

Arya moans and bucks and thrusts back, until she is a whimpering mess in his arms. Jon grabs her legs and holds them up over his shoulder, and Arya can see the way his cock rams into her.

"You're mine," she says again, and Jon stares. His grunt is followed by three hard thrusts before he is spilling, and Arya is filled with his warmth.

Her cunt is sore, and so is her back. Arya's hair has fallen out of her braid and is a mess. She almost falls from the exhaustion, but he catches her.

The kiss he lands upon her brow is sweet, and it tingles her skin in a way nothing had done before. Arya sucks his neck and leaves a mark dark enough to not fade for a week.

And large enough to be visible to everyone.


End file.
